


Again

by IwillbeReichenbach



Series: I want to go home. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Canon Compliant, Closure, Dark, Drug Abuse, Drug Addict Sherlock, Drug Use, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Flashbacks, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Serbia - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock is a Mess, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Whump, psychological healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22585099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IwillbeReichenbach/pseuds/IwillbeReichenbach
Summary: Sherlock is struggling to recover from the horror he suffered in Serbia.  With John and Mary away on their honeymoon, he must face his demons alone.  Will he find closure or come completely unravelled?This work is complete, I never publish anything that is not complete.  You will get your ending!Thank you to my ever so busy beta Sandrina.  Without her help and support and nice words I would never be brave enough to post the dark stories that I write.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: I want to go home. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1625116
Comments: 40
Kudos: 277





	1. Chapter 1

If I bothered to think about it, I would have been overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by what had happened in Serbia. By the lingering pain and the burning shame and the fear and the constant exhaustion. The fear of anyone finding out. The fear of John finding out. The irrational fear of being back there. The fear of being powerless. The fear of him. 

But I do not think about it. At least I try not to, and if there are enough distractions that is easy enough. Thankfully there have been plenty of distractions since my return. Terrorist plots, invisible men, bonfires, parental impositions, folding napkins, invitations, gift registries. Not to mention the main distraction; trying to figure out how the new dynamic between John and me is supposed to work. Especially now that he has Mary, and the residual anger of my betrayal. 

The wedding, I found, is much like working a case: a consuming project. I had wanted it to be a grand day for them. I had no practical idea how to achieve that, but there was always the internet. You can learn nearly anything from the internet, if you know where to look. Anything except how to act normal at your best friend’s wedding when you feel completely out of place. 

Until this morning, the morning of the ‘big day,’ I had not truly considered all the ramifications of being the best man. All the preparatory activities were easy, with the exception of writing the speech, but even that had a simple enough solution. Lestrade, once again, was excellent at negotiating a situation that had left me floundering. 

Seating charts were adroitly created, lilac dresses chosen, wine tasted, and suits selected. Even John’s oversight in planning dancing lessons had not resulted in anything other than an entertainment and an unexpected delight, and very nearly a broken toe. 

I awoke to realise that everything was, as Mrs. Hudson suggested and I adamantly denied, going to change completely. I knew that the distraction of the wedding would expire by evening and I had nothing to replace it. Not only that, but first I had to endure an entire day of pretending, not only to be normal, but also completely composed. 

It was a white-knuckle event. 

With the first dance completed, the waltz composition safely sealed into an envelope should they wish to keep it, and the important news unceremoniously and clumsily delivered to John and Mary, I suddenly felt completely and utterly out of place. I had nothing left to offer. No one would notice if I skulked away. 

So, I slip out without any fuss. I am struck by how exhausted I feel as I sink into the back of a waiting cab. As we travel thorough quite London streets, I take in the city lights. The city is particularly beautiful on that rare still clear spring eventing. It does little to calm my ragged nerves. I remove the tie that has been threatening to choke me the whole day.

As I negotiate the seventeen steps to our… no not ‘our’ anymore, to my apartment, I know that little sleep will come tonight. I change out of my morning suit and into some pyjamas and then head into the kitchen, hoping that a cup of tea will help me sleep. I am tired, exhausted, but I know I won’t be able to sleep. I click the kettle on. While I wait for it to boil, I tinker with one of the filters on the lab equipment that takes up the whole of the kitchen table. It must be clogged; the solution is moving too slowly. Installing a new filter is only a few moments work and the kettle is nearly boiled by this time I have it done. Hopefully by morning it will have run through. 

I take the mug of tea with me; my room is stuffy after being shut up on the unusually warm day. I swing the window open and then settle down on the bed. I can hear the faint sounds of the city that never truly sleeps. It is soothing, as are the jelly fish that hover in the small tank beside my bed. I watch them as I sip my tea. Letting my mind wonder as it will.

I wonder why Mycroft was so adamant that he did not want to attend the wedding. He usually loves a bit of pomp and ceremony, plus there was cake, that should have been enough to draw him out of his lair. Things have been strange between us, since I got back. He hovers more than ever. It makes me even more aware that I have something to hide. Something that I don’t ever want to think about. I realise then, it is not so much that I don’t think about what happened in Serbia, but rather that I have been trying not to think about it. Now I have run out of distractions. There is no case, no dance lessons, no project, no wedding to organise, no pressing experiment, even the solution running through in the kitchen is just some aimless tinkering. I suddenly feel lost.

Hours crawl by, much like they did when I was trapped in that cell. I toss and turn in the semi darkness; unable to get comfortable, unable to settle my mind. I alternate between burying myself beneath the bed covers as I shiver and throwing them off when they are too hot and close. Every time I almost nod off, as my eyes sink closed and my brain starts to shut down a little, I am brought back online with a shudder. It is not so much a memory or a feeling, rather more of an uncontrolled response. I know it was drummed into me to stay awake, to the fight the urge to sleep, operant conditioning at it most pure. Knowing this does not help me to stop it. 

The fain blue light from the tank illuminates the room with a soft glow. This is usually enough to lull me to sleep eventually, but tonight I am too agitated. Memories and thoughts come unbidden, all of them from Serbia. My brain leaps from one to another without my control. It is as if it is still happening. I can feel it all again. The bone deep ache in my feet from standing for days on end. The hours of combined boredom, expectancy and fear make every nerve itch. The pain and shocking anticipation produced by the staples punching through my skin. The confusion that lasted for days. Or were the days of clarity worse? No, the voids, the days that I have no recollection of, they were the worst. The appalling cracking noise of my wrist breaking when panic took hold and I had struggled too much. The endless strain on my shoulders and back. The exhaustion. The constant fear that I wouldn’t be able to hold out. That I might give up my friends for momentary comfort. I feel sick to my stomach knowing how close I came to doing exactly that. How tempting the idea had seemed, the thought that they might just let me rest a while if I told them what they wanted to hear. The cold damp air. The smell of decay, infection, my own piss and excrement. The smell of him. The sound of his shoes dragging through the grit of the floor. His touch; rough hands against my bare skin. The trapped claustrophobic feeling as his mouth presses against mine. His breath. My lack of it. Panic. The pain of penetration. Waiting for him to finish. Torn between hoping he will be quick and hoping he won’t be too rough. The sickening completion. Warmth and moisture. Muscles cramping as my body tries to return itself to normal. Him sitting there staring at me, waiting until the time is right. Knowing that it will happen again the next night, and on the one after that, and the one after, and so on.

Dear God, it is as if he is here in the room with me. I can smell him. Feel his stare against the back of my head. It makes my skin prickle. 

I throw back the covers. I stomp though the apartment, flicking on all the lights as I go. No need to stay quite now the I live alone. I grab the packet of cigarettes from the mantelpiece. I climb out the front window to sit on the tiny balcony; it is hardly more than a window box really, but there is enough space if I sit with my chin on my knees. I chain smoke half the packet; lighting one off the other, until there is a little pile of butts sitting beside me. Through the wrought iron bars I take in all of Baker Street. All is quiet and still at this time of the night. Even the neighbours across the street have all the lights switched off. The third apartment from the left, second story, is still dark. It must not yet be two am. He works as a baker and he would be up by now if it was. He always leaves the bedroom light on once he is up. Lives alone too, I assume. Hard to find love when you work such unsociable hours. 

I consider the half ounce of coke I have stashed in the Persian slipper. 

Not the answer, I tell myself firmly. A little part of my traitorous mind askes if maybe it is the answer.

I step back through the window and pick up the violin from its case and begin to play half-heartedly. My shoulder makes a minor complaint at the movement, but I ignore it, hoping that it will loosen up with the movement. I play the waltz that I had written for earlier this evening. It comes naturally, it has been the only piece I have played in the last few weeks, but it quickly melds into something older, something I composed, well… that seems like a lifetime ago. I thought I had lost a friend that night too. 

It is while I play that I make the decision. The timing is right. John and Mary are to be away for a couple of weeks on their honeymoon, so it is unlikely that anyone will notice that I am gone. It needs to be done. I need closure. 

Eventually, I lose myself in the music, I just let the notes flow, not controlling or forcing them, just letting them come as they wish. Letting my mind wonder through the plans. I’m not sure how long I have been at it when Mrs. Hudson bangs her good broom against her ceiling. I feel it in my bare feet as much as I hear it. She must have walked out to the entry way to tap me into silence. I end the tune abruptly with a squawk that makes me grit my teeth.

“Sorry.” I call down absently to her. 

I glance down at my bow; the strings are as worn and matted as the mane of a pixie ridden pony. I will have to have it re-haired completely. No wonder Mrs. Hudson resorted to the broom; I must have been playing for ages.

I sink into my armchair. My shoulder is too sore now to allow me to play more. I’m not sure I could manage even a quiet apologetic tune. I sit with my legs crossed on the seat, violin resting on my lap. I pluck absently at the strings as I go through the details of my plan one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate using the PTSD tag. PTSD is a term bandied about and often used without full understanding of the full impact and clinical significance of post traumatic stress disorder. If you are going to write about it, please do your research. It is not simply a case of a few bad dreams or a few intrusive thoughts. The diagnostic criteria is huge! Even in this story, which really puts poor Sherlock through the ringer, he would probably not meet diagnostic criteria. That is not to say that he is not incredibly damaged by the things that happened in Home and not to say that he does not need help, but there is no tag for 'psychologically damaged Sherlock'. If you have any questions about PTSD or any psych issues that could help with your writing, hit me up. Put my psych degree to good use.
> 
> This story, like most of mine, deals with some pretty serious issues. I hope to do justice to the topics and how serious they are. Please read the tags. I hope these are issues that you never have to face but if you are struggling in any way please be safe, seek help if you need it, actually, before you 'need' it.


	2. Chapter 2

It is late morning by the time I emerge from my bedroom, not having slept much, but with a strong resolve. Tea and toast first, then into the shower. 

Since my return home water has been an issue. For all my laziness and complacency in other areas of my life I have always valued cleanliness and detested being dirty. Getting into a right mess is fine, and often necessary for the work, but I hate to stay filthy for very long. I refuse to let my experiences in Serbia keep me from my habits, they might have robbed me of my enjoyment of a daily scrub, but they will not keep me from it. I manage to get through without having a full-blown panic attack, but only because I turn the water off twice, when the suffocating memories of being relentlessly water boarded coming too close to the surface. It is times like these that I am glad that John isn’t living here anymore. He would surely notice the water being turned on and off, and there would be questions. Questions that I do not want to answer would follow. 

The next challenge is bushing my teeth. It is a daily effort not to gag on motion of the toothbrush. I have no memory of why this is, but I do have some strong suspicions. Today I fail and end up doubled over the toilet bowl. It has been weeks since it has been this bad. I know that it is because of the decision I have made, the things I am about to do. 

I’m halfway down the stairs before I decide it is best to tell Mrs. Hudson that I plan to go away. It is likely that Mycroft will discover that I am gone, especially once my name shows up on the flight list. I’m pretty sure he has it red flagged or something. If he does, he would surely check in with Mrs. Hudson before doing anything stupid, like reporting me missing. 

“Yoo hoo.” I call out from her front door. “I’m just …”

“Oh Sherlock, wasn’t it beautiful? The flowers, Mary’s dress, the food was lovely too, your speech was gorgeous, could have done without the investigation bit but the sentimental bits were lovely.”

“There were no sentimental bits.”

“Of course there were, just as there should have been. You and John are special to each other, even if your going away changed things between you two. It was never going to be the same though, was it? Not after …” 

I cut off her blabbering. “I’m going away for a few days. Case. I have a case. Important. Needs taking care of. Should be back by early next week.” 

“Oh really, Sherlock, already? It’s so quite when you’re away, especially with John gone. What will I ever do without my boys?”

“I really don’t know but do lay off the gin.”

She slaps me with a tea towel. “Be safe Sherlock.” 

“You’ll hardly notice I’m gone. I’ll be home long before John and Mary are back from their horny moon.” I step to the side quickly and the tea towel misses me this time. I’m still grinning at her indignant reaction to my jape as I give her a quick hug. As I dash out the front door, I can’t help but appreciate how good Mrs. Hudson is at setting me at ease. 

The flight is tedious. There is a baby squalling three rows back, and the man in front of me has his seat laid back far enough to bump my knees every time he moves. Completely different to the flight I took to get out, Mycroft had organised a comfortable private jet. He won’t fly any other way. It seems like only yesterday that I was bickering with Mycroft as we crossed the English Channel. I had been so confident that everything would be back to normal once I got back on home soil. What a fool I was. 

I shut my eyes and put my fingertips together. I replay the day I returned home. Wishing that I could change so many things about that day. Wishing I could change everything about that day. I try to play it through with the things I should have done, should have said. No matter what I do it always ends with John furious about my faked death and more furious about my sudden return.

I don’t realise that I have fallen asleep until I am startled awake as the wheels touch down with jolt. There is every chance that I may have made a little shout, if the suspicious glances from other passengers are anything to go by. 

“Nervous flyer” I mutter, an apologetic lie that I hope covers my little outburst. Sleep is not my friend, waking up even less so.

I shuffle along with the other passengers as we are herded through immigration and customs. Having never been to Serbia as a Sherlock Holmes, and having never arrived through official channels, arriving at the Belgrade Nikola Tesla Airport is a novel experience. It doesn’t feel like the same country. Or maybe I don’t feel like the same person. Last time I arrived in this country, I secretly and unlawfully crossed the border near Zvonce. It was a risky move. If I had been caught the only way out would have been through Mycroft’s assistance. That would have meant the end of my mission. Uncompleted. Unacceptable. Despite the unfavourable occurrences towards then end of my hiatus, at least it ran its complete course. 

Glad that I have only brought a carry-on bag, I can step out of the airport before most of the people on my flight. The few that leave alongside me dissipate along the footpath in an effort to claim a taxi. Beating the rush means that taxis are easy to come by. I have no desire to drive here. These lunatics drive on the wrong side of the road. It is worth risking the, almost inevitable, overcharge from the prolific Belgrade fast meters. 

As I slid into the back seat, I can’t help but feel weighed down by the tasks ahead. In my barely passable Serbian, I give the driver direction to take me to Beograd Centre. He nods his understanding. Soon we are passing by a blue sign announcing, in an understated way ‘dobro došli’, welcoming me to Belgrade. If they knew what I plan to do here the sign would probably read ‘odjebi’. 

From Beograd Centre I have my destination mapped out. I will travel by train to Nis, then I will travel under my own steam for a while. The train ride is a bit over five hours. The bus would have been cheaper and a bit quicker, but I prefer to travel by train if I have the choice and this trip was not designed to be inexpensive. Plus, there is no urgency in my goals here, save for those of my own creation. 

The countryside is beautiful at this time of year, much more so than the desolate landscape that greeted me last time I was hear. I have a window seat; I rest my head on the cool glass and watching the green landscape whip by. The people are polite and mostly leave me alone, for which I am eternally grateful. 

The ride to Nis leaves me with the exhausted fug you can only get from travelling for the better part of a day. My legs feel powerless from sitting for too long. From the train station I choose to walk hoping that it will freshen me up a bit. Despite it being late, I find some accommodation for the night easily enough and resolve to continue with my objective tomorrow.

Feeling fresher from a few hours of sleep, I begin where things left off last time I was here. Deep into the rugged wilderness. It takes me some time to get my bearings. It had been late autumn last time I had been here. I walk through the forest; careful to keep to the tracks. One piece of forest looks much the same as another out here. It would be easy to get turned around, if one wasn’t careful. It is peaceful here and for the first time in a long while I feel calmer. Not at peace exactly but better for having something to focus on. Something proactive rather than reactive. Better that I am not hiding from it. 

It takes me longer than I had expected to find the small stream that leads me to the spot where I had hidden the handgun and my fake passport. Despite giving up the location of my car and with it my camp site, when I could no longer endure the electric shocks, they had not been able to find my well-hidden treasure. I push the gun into the waistband of my trousers. It is a comforting weight against my spine, the photos of Clair I slip from the passport folder and into my breast pocket. I had taken it from her apartment after she was murdered. It was a risk to keep it; the photo was the only thing that tied me to ever being there. It is a risk to keep it now, but I cannot bring myself to throw it away. In truth it does not even belong to me. It belongs to Owen Jeffreys. That was who I was, who I had to be, who she knew me as. A different person altogether. The passport I tuck into jacket. I plan to return it to the hiding spot before I leave. You never know when it might be useful to have a hidden passport in your likeness in another country. The gun will have to stay too. Airports and firearms tend not to mix so well. 

I oscillate for a time, trying to decide if I want to go back to the compound where I was held, tortured. It was nothing more than a few old buildings; the place itself can hold no power over me. It is curiosity that gets my feet moving though. Is there anything left, is anyone there? Maybe someone will know where to find the man I am looking for. 

It takes longer than I would have thought to get there, I don’t remember it being quite so far. I am starting to consider that I have missed it somehow when I see a clearing through the trees. A few deep craters tell of the power of the explosives. It should have been satisfying to see that it is nothing more than charred beams and rubble with a few sprouts of grass growing within the destruction. I feel emptiness.

There is a small wildflower, bright blue against the greens and browns of the damaged landscape. It has shot up in the most unlikely of places, in between some broken grey bricks. Whatever manages to grow here will be better than what it replaces. 

The small town nearby is mostly deserted. Most of the income had come from the compound. Either directly from the military element or from the drug trade that had flowed through here. Without it, the town had failed. Only a couple of small farm holdings remain. It only takes a few questions to find out the new location of the person I seek. 

Getting there is easy. The farmer that told me of the location I seek offers me a lift. His vehicle looks like it has been on the road since the soviet era. He happily chatters about his family and the weather and the success of this year’s crops; apples is my understanding. I filter out most of it and the rest is drowned out by the noise of the engine. Thankfully he doesn’t seem to need much in the way of encouragement to keep him going. I just hum and nod in, what I think are, all the right places. I’m in no state to hold a conversation; the calm of earlier is dissipating as my nerves build with every lurching kilometre. 

When he drops me at the end of the street and points to the house, I offer him some cash as thanks of his assistance. He refuses me, telling me that his is happy to be out for the day. Apparently, his wife has been nagging him to fix a dripping tap. A job he neither wanted to do today, nor wanted to be hearing any more about. 

“You’ve kept me out of trouble for the morning,” he says with a chuckle “and I can pick up the parts just down the road here. That should keep her quiet for the day. It is you that has done me the real favour.” 

He waves through the opened window as he trundles off in the direction he came from. I can’t help but feel abandoned. His good nature had been a welcome reprieve from my introspection.

The house features peeling paint and grubby yellowing windows. There is nothing about it that is either special or appealing, other than an air of menace that I know is of my own creation.

I know that I cannot act too quickly. I need to know the routine of the inhabitant and the nearby residents. I spend two days watching and observing the street. I book a hotel room nearby but spend very little time there. Preferring to know the exact schedules of everyone nearby. 

From the moment I heard the tell tail whistle of the missiles as Mycroft drove me way from horror and towards safety, I knew he was not there at the compound where they had held me. I knew he did not die in the bombing, even as the explosions rattled the windows of our getaway vehicle. I knew he would not have arrived there yet. He only ever came late at night. Of course, I never told Mycroft that one of them had gotten away. There are just some things that I would rather never to discuss with my brother. With anyone really. He had known enough from just one glance, but I don’t think he knew which of my captors was my rapist. I am sure if he knew he would have made him disappear. So, I made sure that he never knew. I want to do that myself. In my own way.

I am shocked when I see him the first time. It is on the second day of my surveillance; the first time he has stepped outside. He shuffles to the letter box; his gait unsteady, each step a different length to the one before it. His arms move in a writhing fashion. He is not a well person. Failing health has left him more crippled and pathetic than I remember. The deterioration has been rapid. It does not change my plan. If anything, it enhances it. Perhaps makes it more urgent.


	3. Chapter 3

It isn’t until that third afternoon that he leaves the house. He takes his scratched and dented old relic of a car. It doesn’t see much driving so I know he must be going out for a reason. I wonder if it is safe for him to be driving. Probably not. 

I use his absence as an opportunity; I slip through the door at the side of the house. It is technically the back entrance to the house, but it is nearer to the driveway, and because of this it is the entrance that is most used. The door does not squeak, and that side of the house is more hidden from the street. It enters straight into his kitchen. It suits me well for access.

I have barely had a chance to step inside before my sensors are assaulted by the smell of him. It is thick within these walls; the air stagnant. The combined stench of stale cigarette smoke, body odour, mouldy food and halitosis nearly drops me to the floor. The cloying odour makes my eyes water and my throat seize up. I am frozen in place with my back up against the door. The pressure of my gun nestled at my lower back does nothing to sooth my panic. Not for the first time, I doubt I can do this. I feel the need to cough. To get this rotten air out of me. 

I step back outside the door. I gasp for air like a fish out of water. It takes a few minutes, but I manage to catch my breath. I loathe my reactions; my lack of control over them. 

With sweat slick on my back, I re-enter the house and I start to get my bearings. A tiny sitting room is visible through a tacky archway from the kitchen. The only furniture is a recliner and a telly. Up the short hallway is a bathroom with horrid orange tiles, a laundry, his bedroom and a room that should serve as a second bedroom but just has a few dusty boxes and an old lamp upon it. All the walls are the colour of custard and I don’t think it is due to the choice of paint, but rather a residue of filth and smoke.

With half my attention on listening out for a car in the driveway, I begin to search the house. I want to know more about this man. I need to know that my planned actions are justified. 

The filing cabinet shows that his finances are boring, but relatively in order. Or at least they were until about six months ago. Some bills have been neglected in more recent times. I suspect he simply forgot to pay them. He does not have much, but he does not spend much either. 

I open the fridge; empty shelves stare back at me. It smells worse than my fridge, but sour milk is preferable to the smell of the rest of the house. There is hardly any food in the pantry either. He is a terrible cook, judging by what is in there. None of this is helping me though. 

I find a photo album in the petite teak cabinet at the end of the hall; the only piece of furniture that could be called stylish, clearly inherited. The album is bound in a light blue cover with a picture of a cartoon toddler playing with a little red train engine. All depicted in cheerful pastels. It is clearly quite old. I sit down on the carpet with the book in my lap. When I open the cover, the spine threatens to crack. The first page shows three black and white photos under a clear sheet of plastic. The once sticky plastic has yellowed and become brittle. It flakes away as I touch it. The yellowing square photos show a baby. Swaddled and in a plastic hospital crib in the top photo. Then a woman with neat curls holding a baby in the photo underneath and the next photo shows a toddler sitting up. 

Presumably they are all photos of the same child. The rest of the pages show the progression of the child ageing. The clothing gives away little to me. My inductions are not always historically accurate, nor do they cross all cultures, especially where clothing is considered, but I can read the faces and the countenance of the people depicted. The early photos show a loving mother that is staring at her young child. There are no photos of the father in the first few pages. I don’t even notice his absence until he appears on the fourth page, then I wonder if he had been the one to take the other photographs. 

In the photo where I first see his father, the toddler stands between his parents next to their new car. The women had a put-on smile that would convince most, but not me. The father is a large man with broad shoulders and a stern face. His hand is clamped into the boy’s shoulder; the boy’s face is sullen. 

Gradually the photos become larger and rectangular and eventually some are in faded colour. There are school photos of the morose boy in a uniform, tie neatly tied at his throat. By the time he is about eight he is easily recognisable as the man I still think of as the Nightman. 

There are no photos of him with friends. The three family members are the only ones depicted. When I turn over the page, there is a photo of him with a birthday cake. The nine candles light up his eyes, but he shows none of the bright-eyed excitement of a birthday boy about to get his cake. His father sits in the background reading a newspaper. It is obvious how disconnected this family is. 

As I flip over the stiff pages, he becomes a pimply teen in more school photos. There are a few more birthday shots, and one of him driving a tractor, perhaps on the family farm. A photo of the teen holding up the antlers of a dead buck. The rifle lying against its shoulder. He looks proudly at the camera, but he does not look happy. He does not look happy in any of the photos, even when he is smiling. 

Then I turn the page to the photo I find the most startling, that is when I realise. It shows a group of people, they must be the extended family. The Nightman stands off to the side, next to his mother and father, but away from them a little. His mother is thinner than she is in any of the other photos and her right arm is held at a slightly awkward angle in front of her body. She looks sad. The young boy leans away from his father, so much so that it is suddenly clear to me that he is afraid. 

I flick back through the pages; my hands moving quickly. As I look at the photos again the fear is clear in all of them, now that I look for it. Especially when his father is close to him. I know it as if he had told me himself. He was abused. It must have gone on for nearly all his young life. He might be a monster in my eyes but now I know that years of abuse and isolation helped to make him that way. 

My chest feels tight as I look at the final photo. It shows a young man in a military uniform. He looks tired and far too small to be in the ranks of men, but his chin juts out in a defiant way. Escape, I think. That was his only way to get out of there. 

I feel deeply sorry for him. How should any child be expected to cope in that situation? I expect his mother was beaten too; I’d lay serious money on it, in fact. She knew no way of stopping his behaviour, powerless to protect herself let alone her son. I wonder if she knew the extent of the abuse. I wonder if that is why there are no more children, or was it her health.

Should leave now and never come back? Do years of abuse justify what he did to me? Is knowing this is enough for me to move on? Knowing that he knew what it was to lay awake at night and wonder how long it would be before someone came to hurt you, to rape you? 

I can’t decide. I need more data. I continue to search. 

I don’t want to go into his bedroom. I don’t want to look there, but I make myself. His clothing is boring and disorderly. I have no fear that he will realise that someone has been rummaging through it.

There is an extensive collection of pornography under his bed along with a few other unsavoury items. I shouldn’t have opened the magazines, but I am nothing, if not hopelessly driven by a need to know. Flicking through his collection shows he has a clear preference for the same sex, for the vulnerable, and those who are restrained. While this alone does nothing to alarm or particularly concern me, for I had expected it, his inclination towards the underaged and for violence makes me once again feel more justified in my plan to remove him from society. The fifteen colour photographs that are wedged in between the pages of Bound and Gagged magazine are the most concerning. They are clearly black market items that are highly illegal. 

I do wonder momentarily if there is enough in his collection for me to try to get him imprisoned; but with no assurances of a long-term sentence, even if found guilty of possession of child pornography, I expect he probably would have been out within a year or so. That would not do.

It is as I sit on the floor, surrounded by the questionably obtained pornography that makes my stomach churn, that I hear the gravel in the driveway crunch. I glance at my watch. More time has passed than I had realised.

He is back.

I hurriedly stack the magazines and loose photos back under his bed. I have miscalculated; he is entering the house as I am leaving his bedroom. No time for an escape. I sidestep quickly into to spare room, stand in the space behind the open door. He won’t come in here; he never comes in here. It is half knowledge and half hope. 

I glance around nervously. Peeking through the gap between the door and frame, I can see him. My guts clench. He flops down into the armchair, turns on the television. The light flickers over his face. The shifting light and colour, and the twisting of his features makes him look completely grotesque. 

I can’t... I can’t breathe here. I can’t do this. I need to leave but there is no escape, at least no without alerting him to my presence. That would ruin the plans. I have to wait. It is late in the evening, if I wait until he goes to sleep; I can just slip out unnoticed. I just have to wait. 

The smell of him is stronger now that he is home. I find it hard to catch my breath as I stand there behind the door. I grip my knees to keep myself steady. I almost gag before I master myself once more.

Memories that I thought I did not have bombard me. I do not know if I had tried to erase them or if they were never installed properly from the beginning. For much of my time there, I was so confused. I was not at my best when those things happened to me. 

I can almost see the bright light, feel the rough floor beneath my bare feet and the bite of the cuffs as they dig into my wrists. My feet hurt from standing for days, the electrical burns on my chest sting as cold sweat rolls off me. I am aware of his scent; his presence. I can’t see him from my bent position, but I know he sits in the chair by the light, both of us waiting in anticipation. I wait for his attack. Why he waits, that, I don’t truly understand. The right time? The right feeling? Some unknown sign from me? Does he just enjoy watching me squirm?

Then the light is off. My heart hammers in my chest; I can feel every beat against my busted ribs. He is no longer waiting. He shuffles towards me with his familiar, ambling gait. I don’t see him approach, my position keeps me staring at the floor and don’t have the energy to look up past my overgrown hair. There is no point anyway in the complete darkness, but I know his gait from the sound of his approaching steps. The other sound is more disturbing. He undoes his belt and slides it off. This is new. Usually he inflicts his own brand of foreplay upon me, leaving himself fully dressed until the last moment. Tonight, he is in a rush. 

I know he is close, but he doesn’t touch me yet.

I jump when I feel the soft warm leather around my throat. Shit. This is not good; I think as he pulls the tail of the belt though the buckle, effectively creating a noose. I am hyperventilating, I know I should slow down my breathing; take a deep breath while I still can. I’ve seen the bodies of people killed this way. It is an effective way to kill but a seemingly unpleasant way to die. Having myself been choked to unconsciousness; I can attest to its unpleasantness. 

But this is likely to go beyond unpleasantness, judging by the way he pulls my head towards his crouch. One hand fisting my greasy hair and the other pulling the belt tight. There is no doubt as to what he expects, and I am not a willing participant. I keep my lips tightly together and my teeth clenched, despite the shooting pain from my splintered molar. His smell overwhelms me, and I try not to gag as he butts the blunt wet head of his penis against my lips. I am getting desperate for air, my clogged lungs failing to get enough as I breathe through my wreaked nose. Like the rest of me, my nose has seen some action. It feels swollen and bruised, blocked with snot and blood, not allowing my panicked breaths to pass easily. I try to turn my head away, but his grip is tight, and I am weak. Pre come smears on my face as my lungs burn for relief. My knees give out and I would have fallen heavily against my bonds if it weren’t for the belt around my neck pulling tighter still as it holds me up. That is the moment I gasp for air. I get very little. That is the moment he has been waiting for. He thrusts into my mouth and I gag violently at the intrusion. I would have bitten down without mercy if I had been able to. It would have been worth my life to have done him serious damage or better yet to have relieved him of his genitals, but the belt, jammed up against my jaw prevents it. Once opened my jaw will not shut. My feet scrabble for purchase as I try to pull away. It is wasted energy. The belt so tight that I am held firmly in place as he fucks into my mouth. Into my throat. Tears and spit run down my face as I gag and cough repeatedly. It does nothing to remove the intrusion. I will myself not to vomit. A hacking gag escapes me, and I am unable to control it. A deep thrust hits the back of my throat again and I cannot keep down the meagre contents of my stomach. The vomit that comes up has little room to exit. Some of it dribbles down my chin; the rest is unable to find a path. Fantastic, this is how I go. The Great Sherlock Holmes chokes to death on vomit and cock. What a way to go. 

The bile burns in my throat and chest. I fight to cough and then just to breathe. I can hear his moans as his hips snap forwards. I wish that my brain would just shut off and relieve me of this moment. Instead it categorises taste, smell, sensation, auditory information, pain and fear. My body fights for air while my brain struggles with an awareness that I wish it was not capable of. The fight for air is one that I am quickly losing. Squeezed from the outside and filled from the inside my airways fail to swap enough carbon dioxide for oxygen. Exhaustion. My coughs get weaker and wetter. I am now fully slumped against the chains and the belt. His hips stutter and his moans grow louder. I am barely there when he buries his cock deep in my mouth and comes; hot and thick. As he pulls back, I make a wet gasp. It is feeble and only succeeds in drawing chunks of vomit and come into my burning lungs. 

The small part of me that is still present in the house of my attacker faintly supplies that it is no wonder that I nearly died of pneumonia. Aspirated stomach acid and semen is a sure-fire way to serious lung trouble. I am unable to breath. Not a whisper of air moves. I don’t even have anything left to maintain the panic I should be feeling. I let myself slip away.

When I come back to myself, standing stupidly in his spare room. I take a small breath, testing whether the air will fill my lungs. The breath shudders as I let it out. I gag violently at the memory and it is a moment before I am able to master myself. I wipe my bottom lip, fully expecting my hand to come away damp. My sleeve, of course, comes away dry. 

It is a good thing that he has the telly turned up loud or it would have spelled disaster to my plans if he found me having a panic attack in his spare room. 

Time passes all too slowly as I wait for him to go to bed. I consider ten different escape routes but none of them are satisfactory. Once the panic lessens, I am bored, but my nerves are tightly strung, my hands shaking. It seems like a lifetime has passed before he rises to go to bed. I hear him go to the bathroom, hear him brushing his teeth. Then I can see the dim light from his bedside lamp through the crack in the door. So close to being able to leave, I force myself to stay put; to wait for the light to go out, but I realise then that it will mean darkness, complete darkness. I will be deprived of my sense of sight while being bombarded by his smell. It will be just like when I was there. I don’t think I will be able to handle it. I know I won’t be able to. It will be too much like the nights in the compound.

I know his is looking at one of his magazines when I hear a familiar low moan and the wet slapping of skin. 

It is too much, I’m out. I can’t handle this. I scramble to leave before complete panic overtakes me, hoping that he is too distracted to hear my footsteps. Trying to be quiet I stumble out of the kitchen door and into the darkened street, I try to take a deep breath but end up coughing and gagging as I jog away from his home; trying to distance myself as quickly as I can. 

I should catch a taxi but as I dash down the darkened streets, I don’t see any. It is a cool night, but I feel overheated. I slow to a walk so I can take off my coat. I’m too hot to wear it after fleeing in a hurry, after sweating through my panic in the close room. I look forward to washing away the fetid stench that seems to have permeated my clothing instantly. 

Right now, I feel as far from closure as I ever have. Why the hell did I come here? 

I know I need to go back and finish this, but not tonight. I need to regroup, to replan. Seeing him again was much worse than I had imagined it could possibly be. Shower, sleep, eat something and go back tomorrow. In the daylight; maybe it won’t be so bad in the daylight.


	4. Chapter 4

I walk fast. The suburbs melt into the business district in the space of only a few hundred meters. There is little traffic at this time of night, so I cross the road against the lights. I do not want to stop moving, as if being still could somehow harm me. Thought whir through my head at frightening speed and I cannot focus on anything else.

Until I notice movement a block ahead. Three men spew stumbling from the door of an establishment with a flickering neon sign. Given its location, amongst the warehouses, I assume that it is not the kind of place you would take someone you wanted to impress. A strip club, not entirely legal, most likely. I tense slightly as they turn towards me, laughing and showing each other about. I consider crossing the street. I flinch as one of the men stumbles into a shopfront rattling the security door heavily. 

My nerves are frayed. My decision to come back to Serbia seems incredibly foolish. I could be in front of the fire reading the latest publication of the Journal of Forensic Toxicology. Instead I pause stupidly in the middle of the sidewalk as three men stagger towards me; jacked up on testosterone and booze. For a brief moment I think that one of them looks a bit like Groan. The one who had favoured tools over bare fists when it came to trying to extract information from me. I wonder how he managed to escape the compound. I shake my head; I know that it’s not true. That my mind is playing tricks on me. The only resemblance is the shaved head. 

‘Get your shit together,’ I mutter to myself. I stride on determined to get to get to my room, ready for this day to be over with. 

I move over to the side of the path closest to the road. I don’t intend to get caught between them and the buildings. The gun is of little comfort. I cannot afford to use it here in the street. Not unless my life depends on it.

I am nearly level with them when one of them, a builder, going by his shoes, slurs “Peder” loudly at me. 

Despite my limited knowledge of the local language, I know instantly the meaning of his insult. He means to imply my sexuality, not something gentlemen strangers should discuss in the streets in my opinion. It’s far from the first time that I have had someone suggest that I am gay. It has been a semiregular occurrence since I was in public school. I rarely bother to respond. This time, anger spikes within me. I am sick of bullies. I am no amateur at these situations. Through trial and error, I have tried nearly every comeback possible and found that while success varies, there are some response that are fairly reliable.

My first response, the one I should have stuck with, is to outright ignore them. I hold my head up and plough on. Unfortunately, they are too intoxicated to accept that they are not being hysterically funny. Well, the builder and the car salesmen are, they continue to make gestures and lewd comments as they approach. The other one, a security guard, stays silent. I am unsure if this makes him an ally, or the most dangerous of them. If he isn’t a threat, then that is cause for relief. If this descends into violence, two against one aren’t such bad odds. I have faced worse.

They are only a few strides away now. The builder stands in my way, still jeering and laughing but there is menace in his voice. 

I move onto my second response. Even as I say the words, I know it is outright stupidity, know that I should just step around him and dart off down the street. But I feel like hitting somebody and he will do. I look him dead in the eye and with my most winning smile pasted on I ask in my best Serbian “Do you fancy a blow job, big boy?”

His rage is instantaneous. He barrels towards me like a wounded bull. I can tell instantly that he has no experience with fighting. He is easily side stepped. This however puts me within easy range of the car salesman who jabs at me with is right fist. It is a glancing blow, just grazing my cheek and ear on the way by. I drop him easily with a left jab he never sees coming and right that will leave his ears ringing for days. The moment that this takes allows the builder to return. Seeing his friend on the ground does nothing to placate his anger. He shoves me up against the shopfront window and tries to head butt me, aiming for my nose. It would have been a solid blow, but I drop my head and his forehead clashes against the top of my skull. Better than my face but it makes my neck crunch with the force. His meaty fist connects with my ribs as my knee finds its mark, doubling him over. 

It is then that the security guard leaps into action. Shit, I think, he probably has some training. I could be in a spot of trouble here. It is only after my left hook connects heavily with the builder’s jaw that I realise two things. I have smashed the window behind me with my elbow and the security guard is dragging his friend away, muttering something about how embarrassing it is to see him get his arse kicked by a skinny posh twat. 

An alarm sounds loudly within the shop. 

I stumble away from the group, stopping only to pick up my coat which I had dropped to the ground in the melee. I glance back to see the builder pushing his friend away. Much to my relief neither make any effort to follow me but instead turn to help the third man up. 

Adrenaline is an amazing thing. I feel better than I have in hours. It won’t last but it feels good to have thrown a few punches. It is not until I have gone two blocks that I realise that blood is dripping from the tips of the fingers on my left hand. 

I sigh. Never is there a dull moment in my life. As I walk through the foyer of my hotel, I put my hand in my pocket to prevent most of the blood dripping onto the carpet. It is fairly effective. I fumble my door key out of my other pocket one handed, dropping my coat again in the process. I’ve thoroughly had enough of today. Strange how something as small as dropping a coat can be the thing that tips me over the edge of euphoria and back into anger and disappointment. I shove the door open with my hip and kick my coat through the door. I lock the door behind me and step over my coat and into the bathroom. 

A glance in the mirror shows me a glaze of pink across my left cheek. I unbutton my shirt and remove both it and my jacket together. I can feel something catch uncomfortably near my elbow. The blood soaked sleeve hit the floor with a wet smack. I bend my elbow to inspect the damage. A sliver of glass peeks out of my forearm just near the point of the anconeus insertion. Having inverted my arm, blood now drips rapidly from my elbow. 

I am thankfully that John has managed to instil a few good habits within me. A small but well stocked first aid kit always resides within my travel bag. John packed it for me years ago and always kept it stocked when he was a feature at Baker Street. It has stayed there while I was away and I had not had cause to use it since. I had not checked but I was confident it was still well equipped. I hold a wad of toilet paper below the wound as I go to my bag and then rustle though my things to find the kit. 

With minimal dripping I manage to return to the bathroom with the first aid kit. It is just as John left it. Neatly arranged and well equipped. I easily locate the tweezers. The smooth surface of the glass is slippery from the blood that covers it, so it takes a few tries to get a good grip on it. I hiss as it finally pulls free from the skin. Blood oozes even more freely from the wound. 

At my insistence John had taught me how to do simple stitches. He regretted it almost instantly when he found that I had neatly stitched up the entire pork roast that he had planned to cook for dinner. That was when he had taught me how to remove stitches. Lessons that have come in handy a few times. 

I clumsily knit the skin together one handed. Using the crook of my elbow to hold the loose end of the string while I work the needle through. It takes longer than it should, and the first three stitches look rough, but the bleeding has almost stopped. Sweat runs into my eyes and I brush it from my forehead using the back of my shaky gloved hand with much frustration. 

As I complete the last wonky stitch my hands begin to shake. The intense control I have been exerting over myself begins to slip. It had been stupid to confront them. I peel off the glove a moment later and hurl it across the room with a growl of anger. It flops to the ground pathetically amongst the wads of blood-soaked toilet paper and gauze. It had been stupid to come back here. I know that I am moments away from an emotional meltdown, but I still have hope that I can have some kind of control over it. It had been stupid to think I could face this. 

Rummaging through the first aid kit I find an appropriately sized dressing and slap it on. Rolling a crepe bandage over the top to keep it in place. It had been stupid to think I could face him. 

My stomach starts to churn and clench. I grip the sink to ground myself and try to take a few deep breaths; they shudder and hitch. It doesn’t help. In fact, it makes everything worse. I smell him. His scent is on me.

Thank God I’m in the bathroom or I would not have made it to the loo. Despite having not eaten all day my body still manages to hurl up bile and stomach acid. Then as I kneel; gripping the cheap plastic seat as if my life depended on it, my body continues trying to hurl up all my internal organs. 

When the retching finally stops, I slump to the floor. The tiles feel wonderfully cool against my palms. I rest my forehead on the floor too. It’s not enough. I lay down amongst the empty gauze packaging, the discarded latex glove and the bloody clothing. I’ve seen cleaner murder scenes. I can’t help but wonder how many varieties of bacteria are on the floor with me. I’m still shaking but the tiles feel good against the bruised side of my bare chest. I’m glad I’m alone. I couldn’t bare it if anyone saw me like this. 

I don’t know how long I stay there, on the floor but, eventually the cold seeps in and I find myself shivering. 

I am stunned by this lack of control I have over myself. With the exception of a few intrusive memories from time to time and the problems with my daily ablutions, oh and the sleeping thing, I have been coping fine. The only time I had come close to breaking down was the night I had returned home, and Mrs. Hudson had kept me right. Since then I have been functioning as normal. I would not even meet the full clinical diagnostic criteria for post-traumatic stress disorder. But right now I am a mess.

As they have done all day, for days, the memories come unheeded. Somewhere in an alcove of my mind I know what the triggers are. They are all there: the taste of bile, the cold, being on the floor, being shirtless, the jeers of the drunken men still ringing in my ears and mostly the vile smell that is the Nightman. 

I can’t get that smell out of my nose, or out of my mind. It all conspires to transport me back to the moment that I had I woken up on the floor to the realisation that I had been raped while I was unconscious. Defenceless, deprived of any ability to fight back, or even plead for a way out. Deprived of the exact knowledge of what happened, taking away any chance of even trying to even process it. 

I am plagued by questions both obvious and vague. What had happened? How had he touched me? Had I been on the floor or still chained up? How would I have reacted if I’d come to? Was it a blessing or a curse that I hadn’t? How long had he taken to work himself up to it? Had he thought I was dead? How had my body reacted? How long…?

Stop!

Absently, I touch the spot on my chest where the staples had held the electrical wires. The contact burns are almost invisible now. Just a shadow. The punctures from the staples merely a thickening of the skin, almost invisible to the eye but easily felt when I run my fingers over them. 

The events are inexorably tied together in my mind. Without one the other wouldn’t have been instigated. If I hadn’t had been unconscious for an extended period of time, the Nightman would have just continued to sit and watch. Content to satisfy his urges with his hand; not finding the nerve to make his fantasies a reality. 

Suddenly I need to move. Being still is no longer an option. I pace, first within the bathroom. Afraid to go too far from the loo, lest I need to vomit again. Then across to the window of the room and back. 

I wish I had brought a hit with me. I should have known that this would happen. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. I had thought the risk was just too great. International airports are well equipped to find even small amounts of for personal use. Should have risked it. There are ways.

The minibar. I rip open the tiny fridge. There are four small bottles. I don’t recognise the labels on them but to be honest I don’t take the time to inspect them. I unscrew the caps on all four bottles and guzzles them down. Tipping two at a time into my mouth, dumping the empty bottles onto the bench top. I pat my pockets as I pace. Where did I leave my cigarettes? I pick up my coat and riffle through the pockets. Empty.

“Damn it!” I shout as I throw the coat back onto the carpet. 

Back in the bathroom I try the pockets of my blood-stained jacket. Nothing! I run my hands through my hair in frustration. Where the bloody hell did I put them? 

I stride over to the phone on the desk. A sign above it announces that you have to dial 1 to reach the concierge’s desk. I stab at the button, then take a deep breath. I need to try not sound like a complete nutter on the phone. 

“Hello, how can I help you?” an overly friendly voice asked down the phone. 

“I was wondering if it was possible to order a bottle of scotch and a carton of cigarettes?” I ask. Breathe, you moron. I absolute sure that she must be able to hear how close I am to losing hold on reality. It is then that I realise that I can’t find my smokes because I quit, again. 

“Sir?” 

“What’s that?” I ask realising that I should have answered a question I did not hear.

“Which brand would you like?”

“I don’t care. Whatever you have. Not low tar.” I don’t even know if she is talking about the scotch or the cigarettes. I really don’t care though. 

“They will be brought up to your room in a moment. Shall I have them charged to …?” 

“Yes.” I hang up before she can ask anymore ludicrous questions. 

I go back to the pacing. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wardrobe door. I’m a mess. Shirtless, blood stained, light bruising across my cheek and chest, hair plastered to my head by sweat, eyes blood shot. I must reek too; of sweat and fear and blood and vomit. 

I force myself into the bathroom and turn on both the shower taps with shaking hands. I wish there was a bathtub. I’ll ask for an upgrade tomorrow. I know without any doubt that taking a shower when I’m this worked up is a bad idea, but how much worse could it get. Maybe washing the smell of him off will help. 

I strip quickly and step under the water. I attack my skin with cheap hotel soap. All the while I keep my head tipped forward away from the spray. I scrub at my skin roughly, stopping only to turn the hot water up further. Cold water would not be a good idea right now. 

When I have washed every inch of myself three times over and I can no longer avoid it, I brace my hands against the glass wall and tip my head back into the water for the briefest moment. The gasp for air isn’t completely voluntary, nor is the step forward I take. 

“Calm down. You are not suffocating.” I mutter to myself. 

Again, I throw my head back into the path of the water. I try to stay there a moment longer but without permission my body steps forward again. I stand shivering outside of the water’s reach. Damn it, I have left my shampoo in my travel bag. I know that I will never get back into the shower if I step out now. I heave a few deep breaths and grab for the miniature shampoo bottle supplied by the hotel. It is guaranteed to make my hair frizzy. Twice I drop the bottle before I can squeeze enough into my palm. I rub it roughly through my hair, I’m angry at myself now. I hate this. How can it be so bloody hard to take a shower? 

I step under the water again, but I can’t hold the position. I turn around to glare in frustration at the shower head, as if it was responsible for the repeated waterboarding I was subjected to. My heart is still hammering in my chest. I slam my palm into the tiled wall. I grit my teeth, place a protective hand over my nose and lean forward into the spray. My head slumped forward. I force myself to breath as the water runs down my face, my throat trying to lock up in the same way that it did when water was repeatedly tipped over my face. Soap goes into my eyes, but I don’t care. I can’t shut my eyes. I stare at the drain with its mouldy grout and tell myself that I am not there in that cell. But I can almost feel him touching me, running his hand across my chest. I stare at the drain and focus my thoughts on the water. Waterboarding beats rape any day. These have become my choices. I scrub at my scalp. Just a bit longer. I can hold it together, just. 

Then the water goes cold.

“What is your name?” Goran askes.

“It’s not real.” I mutter but my knees give out. “He’s not here. He is dead.”

I reach up, my fingers scrambling to turn off the taps. I don’t even care if I still have soap in my hair. I kneel in the shower until I realise that the pounding I can hear is at the door, not in my chest. This motivates me to get to my feet. I don’t bother to dry off; I just wrap the towel around my waist and go to the door. Pink water drips from the wet bandage on my arm.

A young man with my cigarettes tucked under one arm and a bottle of alcohol in the other is about to turn away when I pull the door open. 

“I was taking a shower.” I say lamely as he turns back towards me. 

“I thought you might have gone out for the evening.” He explains as he hands me the items. He is decent enough and has probably worked here long enough to not react to my state of undress. He hardly looks at me. That makes is easier to analyse him. He turns to leave. I almost let him. 

Fuck it.

“Do you have a hit?” I know at a glance that there is a very good chance he does. I hate myself for asking.

He pauses, and I think he might just keep walking, but he turns and for the first time really looks at me. 

“You’re not a cop?”

“Nope, just having a bad day.” I explain, I hardly need to, even an idiot can see it for themselves. I can see the moment he makes the decision. 

“What are you after?”

“Cocaine?” I ask hopefully, knowing it’s unlikely.

“Nar, you’d have to be kidding, but I have some Pajdo.” 

“That will do.” I step back inside to get my wallet. “Any good?”

“Nar, it is all shit here. You want it or not?”

“I’ll need your lighter too.” I say by way of an answer. I know there is a spoon in the drawer. The first aid kit will provide everything else I require. I trade too much cash for the foil packet with two grams of street heroin and kick the door closed in his face. He is no longer useful to me. 

With the packet in my hands I feel better already. I guzzle down a good helping of the booze. Then gather the items I will need. Cotton wool, spoon, clean hypodermic needle and syringe. Thank you, John, you always know how to look out for me.

There is a pen and paper on the desk beside the bed, the hotel means for it to be used to jot down phone numbers, but it will work just as well for writing a list. I acknowledge that a promise is a promise as I scribble down the single word. 

Pajdo. 

If Mycroft’s Serbian is so damn good, he can figure it out.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I hold the lighter under the spoon until the powder had dissolved. Long enough that the metal of the lighter heats up and burns my thumb. The consistency looks right, the odour is ok. Anticipation rises as I fill the syringe with exactly what I need right now. I wrap my belt around my bicep and pull it tight in my teeth. Needle poised above a fat juicy vein. 

Then I pause.

Do I really want to go down this road again? Cocaine was one thing, but heroin is a completely different beast. A beast not so easy to control. I think back to the times I had woken up in the gutter or a doss house or worst of all on Mycroft’s couch. I don’t want to go back to that, do I? No. I know that this is a bad choice. 

One time. Just one time. Just to get me through the night. Then I’ll stop. I can stop, I’ve done it before. More than once. Yes. Just tonight. Just this once. Just so I can get through the night and then through tomorrow. I need to face him. To make this be over. 

I pull the belt tighter. Expectation dilutes the guilt in my stomach. I feel the slight pop as the needle pieces the skin and into the vein, I change the angle to keep the tip of the needle nestled inside the vein. I draw back to ensure the correct placement. I know how disappointing this can be if you miss. Blood races back into the syringe and mingles, swirling with the brown liquid. I press the plunger down slowly. I have no idea about the quality or strength of the product. It is a risk to take something I have not tested, but without my lab I have no choice. Tonight, a risk I am willing to take. 

It feels incredible as the drug enters the blood stream. Better than the thrill of the chase, better than a solved case, better than John singing my praises, better than anything. I am desperate for this oblivion. Willing to risk it all because it is so close, so touchable. I don’t stop pressing on the plunger even when I know I probably should. 

Those last few moments of awareness are important, especially if you don’t know the product. I want to just enjoy it, but I cap the needle and cast is aside. Then I roll to my side and prop a pillow behind my back, choking on your own tongue or worse still your own vomit would be a revolting way to die, I don’t intend on going out that way. 

I take a shuddering breath. Everything feels floaty and calm behind my jazzing nerves. I let my eye flutter shut. I follow the calmness that takes me away from the chaos. 

I feel short of breath, but in a good way, like a hug that’s almost too tight. Something is different. The product is laced with something. What? I should have kept some, to test it later at the very least. To know what is in it, to recreate it. It feels good but it is a bit wrong too. Did I take too much? Maybe, I’m not accustomed to it anymore. I will my diaphragm to keep working. I feel incredibly calm. It is nice, better than nice. Whatever happens now, I have no further control. It feels just like relief. 

I should be hoping that I wake up in the morning. I should be hoping that I wake up at all. I know how it will go if I don’t. That is the curse of working murder cases and missing persons. You know how it works. It will take them days to find me. Only when I fail to check out will someone barge past the do not disturb sign. 

Where did I put my phone? 

I have paid up the room until the end of the week. It is warm in here decomposition will be advancing nicely by then, I’d be hardly recognisable. I have the fake ID on me and have booked the room in that name. 

I could call for help if I had my phone. 

Who knows how long it will take Mycroft to be worried that I’m not home? Probably about a week unless a case pops up. 

Who would I call anyway? 

He will eventually realise, or the fake ID will ping on a database somewhere within his ivory tower. 

I wonder if my lips are blue. 

I hope he comes to identify me. 

It’s in my coat, it might as well be in England. 

Would serve him right. No, actually it would be awful for him, but it would be worse for John. Mycroft would know that. Wouldn’t he? He would find the note. Even if he couldn’t recognise me, he would know from the note, and from the scars, and the country. I hope he doesn’t explain it all to John. Breathe. I hope I wake up. I don’t know where that hope comes from because it would be easier to die. I know it is not within my control though and that sooths me. I let my eyes flutter shut. I feel calm. With one final thought I drift away from consciousness. 

I’m sorry, John.


	5. Chapter 5

Everything hurts. Good, that means I’m alive. 

I let out a deep groan as I scan my body. Splitting headache, taste of vomit, sore elbow, ribs, knees, stomach churning, cold sweat. I try opening my eyes. Too bright. I scrunch them shut again. Left eye hurts too. What time is it? I crack open an eye, much more carefully this time and I peek at my watch. Except I’m not wearing it. Nor am I wearing anything. There is just a towel draped over my hips. 

Oh, shower, panic, drugs. 

Shit. 

I swing my feet out of bed and sit up in one motion. I force myself to stand immediately. I don’t deserve to wallow. My foot crunches the plastic syringe as I stumble to the bathroom. Damn it, the bathroom is a mess. I relieve myself and then turn to face the disarray. The blood on the gauze and on the floor has dried to a ruddy brown. I pick up my jacket. The sleeve is ripped through and it is still damp with blood. It has the faintest whiff of his scent on it. I chuck it into the waste basket that is under the vanity; the shirt goes with it. I decide that the rest of the mess can wait a moment. Priorities. I throw down three paracetamols. This is a definitely a three-paracetamol-problem. 

My reflection tells a sorry story. My hair is frizzy beyond repair, my eye isn’t black exactly, more of a mottled mauve colour and there are streaks of vomit on my cheek. 

I take another distressing shower. This time, I get my own shampoo from my toiletry bag. I get though it without a getting in a full-blown panic. The heroin hang-over is apparently useful for something. I brush my teeth doing my best not to gag on the motion of the toothbrush. I have to stop twice. At least I know why after yesterday’s ever so helpful flashback. Isn’t that a comforting bit of knowledge? 

I dress and put my phone on the charger. The battery is completely flat. While I wait for it to charge, I drink some tea made with a teabag provided by the motel. Average would be too kind a review for the tea, but it is warm. I take it with me, back to the bathroom and begin to tidy up. All the while feeling ashamed.

Eventually I hear my phone chirp to life in the other room. I go to check for messages, not really expecting any. There is a missed call. It’s from John. He left a voice message.

“Hi Sherlock. You on a case? Italy is beautiful, I still hate olives but the…”

I hear Mary in the background shouting, “How would you know; you refuse to even try one?” 

“… but the rest of the food is amazing.” John continues on without acknowledging Mary’s jape, but I can hear the smile in his voice. I smile too. “I reckon even you could put on a kilo over here. Mary got you a gift today, she says I’m not allowed to tell you what it is, but I will tell you that we visited the Capuchin Crypt. Ouch. She’s hitting me. Abusing your husband already? Bit soon isn’t it? We’ve not been married even a week. Anyways it’s great here, you’d love it. You should really go on a holiday some time.”

Christ, if he only knew that I was on ‘holiday’ right now. If he only knew how that was working out.

“Tomorrow we heard further out of town. Mary is going to hire a car and drive us to all the vineyards. I guess I’ll have to be the one to taste everything. No wine for you, Mummy Watson.” He says with the chuckle. “We miss you Sherlock. Don’t forget to eat something. Tea doesn’t count. See you next week.”

“We love you Sherlock.” I hear Mary call out before the line goes dead. I can hear her smile too.

I look down sadly at the tea that doesn’t count. I listen to the message twice more before I leave the room. 

Late in the morning, with all the pieces in place, I enter the cottage uninvited. But this time I am ready. The smell is dreadful and makes my skin crawl but does not remove the air from my lungs. I have resorted to applying vapor rub beneath my nose. I picked it up it at the convenience store where I also bought strong coffee and a croissant, heeding Johns advice to eat something. Even the most putrid smells have not bothered me in the past. All the abhorrent odours of a week-old floater from the Thames would not make me resort to such concealment, but his scent, or more accurately my conditioned reaction to his scent has driven me to drastic measures. 

I have timed my entry well enough to catch the inhabitant unsuspecting. He is in front of the telly again. I guess that’s all he does these days.

Despite my boldness at entering, despite stealing myself for this, despite having the upper hand, both physically and through the act of surprise, I still feel pathetic in his presence. The stench of his halitosis transports me straight back to that cold room. He struggles to his feet as I stand there. His staggering stride brings him towards the tiny kitchen, where I now stand. Just seeing him again makes me want to flee.

However, it is him that cowers. I stand still and straight as he backs against the wall. He holds his hands out defensively and I approach him to stand over his pathetic form. I pull one of the chairs out from the little rickety table and motion for him to sit down. He stares at me wide eyed and makes his way, with halting stuttering steps towards the chair. 

By now I know his name, his age, where he went to school, when he joined the army and just about every detail about his sordid existence, hell, I even know his blood type, but I have never heard him speak until this moment.

“I have nothing.” He says in Serbian. It is not a surprise to hear that his speech is as stuttering and slurred as his walk. “I have nothing, nothing worth taking. I have no money. Please just leave me, I am a frail old man.”

“You’re not though, are you, Mister Jovan Rimac?” I ask, but it is not really a question. “You are only in your mid-fifties.” 

He looks surprised. It is clear that most people just assume that he is older, and he is not used to being called out on a lie. Or perhaps he just expected a threat or a demand from his intruder. 

“Who, who are you? What do you want?”

“I wanted to see you again. I wanted to see the big bad bogey man one more time.” I say slowly as I sit down in the chair opposite him. My voice is clear, my back is straight, but my legs feel like they are made of jelly. Only a small Laminex table between us. Our knees almost touching. The intimacy of sitting so close to him is disturbing, but I don’t let him see that.

He looks confused. I am fairly certain that it is because he recognises my voice, but I suspect that it is so out of context that he cannot figure out who I am or how he knows me. 

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” I ask.

He shakes his head. 

“You don’t remember me? I would have thought I’d have left a bigger impression on you. Oh well, I guess I looked a bit different. My hair was longer then, a bit of a mess too, if I recall. I have put on some weight, and some clothing. I suspect I look quite different when I am not in chains.” 

His eyes widen almost dramatically and suddenly he looks terrified rather than suspicious and fearful. Gotcha, I think as I smirk at him. 

“I need you to tell me something. What you say will affect your outcome.”

He nods nervously, his head twitching. If only he knew how I feel, he would probably be laughing instead of cringing away.

“What you did to me, you’ve never done that to anyone else. Have you?”

He shakes his head rapidly. 

“No. No. Never. It was only you.” Then he pauses. It’s clear he is panicking, wondering if this is the right or wrong answer. I let him panic. He has caused me enough of that. It is only fair.

“I’ve seen the way you look at the boy from down the street. I have seen you watch as he rides his bike up and down the road.”

“No! No, I have never touched him. I would never.”

I don’t truly believe him. I have seen the photos that are under his bed. He would if he had a chance, but I ask anyway. “Then why me? Why then? After years of suppressing your urges?”

The fight goes out of him. He shrugs. 

“You were there. You couldn’t fight back. I thought about it so many times while I was there to keep you awake. You lasted longer than the others. They always broke; ratted on their… their… whoever. Then they were gone. Dead. But you were there day after day after day. My resolve slipped a bit more every day. Then that night, I came in and you were unconscious. I thought you were dead, like the others. So, I started to unchain you. When you slumped to the floor you made a noise. A groan. I tried to wake you up, but I couldn’t. Even when I ripped the wires out of your skin, you didn’t wake up. Then I realised it was my chance. No one was around. No one would come in until the morning. I told myself it was wrong. I knew it was wrong. I thought you’d die. I told myself it was ok because you were practically dead. That you’d never know.” 

He is crying now, his breath hitching as he tries to talk, desperation in his voice, but I know it is fear that is making him cry; fear of me, fear of his admissions, but still not a single sign of expiation. There is no regret in his voice. No regret other than that of getting caught out. Just a desperation to say the right thing.

“It was going to be just that one time. I was stunned when I came in the next night and you were still alive, back in the chains. I though you wouldn’t know what had happened, but I saw you lift your head when I came in. I could see that you knew from the look in your eyes. You hated me. I hated myself. I told myself that I would never do it again. I sat there for almost the whole night wrestling with it, but my resolve broke down sitting there in the cold room. I kept remembering how good it felt. How warm you were. That night, you were not well; I’d never seen you like that before. You kept mumbling something over and over. I couldn’t tell what it was. I went over to you. I was going to shut you up, but when I got to you, it was my name you were saying.”

My head is spinning at this. I couldn’t have said his name, I didn’t even know it until a few days ago. It couldn’t have been. 

Then is hits me. Jovan; he thought I was saying his name because Jovan is the Serbian version of John.

“You kept on saying John, John, John. I thought you wanted it. My resolve broke down. I kept remembering how good it felt. I thought you did too. You were like an addiction. Each night I told myself it was the last time; I sat there for hours trying to convince myself not to do it again. Each night my resolve slipped further as you mumbled my name. You said it so often; you said it while we were together, while we were having sex.”

“Stop it!” I shout, standing up so quickly that my chair scrapes loudly on the linoleum. The noise harsh is the silent room. I run to the sink; barely making it in time. 

I keep one eye on him, but he sits still as I run water to rinse the sink, and my mouth and to splash some water on my face. 

I feel weak as I go back to the table. 

“I was never asking for you. Not once,” my voice shakes, “I begged you to stop so many times.”

“Sure, there were some confusion, but I thought you liked…”

“No.” I say quietly. “I didn’t.”

“Eventually, it had happened so many times that it didn’t it matter if it happened again.”

“It mattered to me.” 

Strangely my rage has dissolves into something else. I still hate him, but I pity him too.  
The feeling I’m left with is the hollow empty feeling of sadness. I had tried so hard to keep John out of it, to not even think of him while I was there. If they had found out my connection to him, he would have been as good as dead, but it made sense that it was John I would call to when I was at my worst. And I was at my worst after the electric shocks, hours had gone missing, days were muddled together and split apart as my brain failed to lay down new memories coherently. I really had no idea what I had said or done. The flashback that I had experienced yesterday only proved to me that there was so much that I did not clearly remember. I feel instant guilt at the level of risk I had subjected John to. I feel both horrified and glad that my rapist shares his name. This coincidence might have saved John’s life, even if it had made mine a total misery at the same time.

None of this changes my resolve to follow through with what I had come here to do. I need to get this back on track.

“I am going to make sure that you can never hurt anyone again. Especially not that child from down the street.” I say, laying the gun on the table between us. I keep my palm on the grip, last thing I need is for him to make a grab for it. “But first I need you to hear what I have to say.” 

I pause. I hope that he thinks it is for dramatic effect, but it is really only for me to collect my thoughts. 

“What you did to me was reprehensible. You weren’t trying to interrogate me; at least the others were just following orders, trying to get answers, but you,” I pause again this time to quell my rising anger a little “you humiliated me, debased me, violated me in the most disgusting …” 

“I was following orders too.” He cuts me off as he tries to defend his actions.

“No, no you weren’t.” I shout, before regaining my composure. “You were satisfying urges that you cannot control. You are weak, and I paid the price for that. Over and over and over.” 

Again, I hesitate, lest I lose all control. The gun shakes in my palm. “I need to do something. I need to sleep through the night. I need to know that you can never hurt anyone again. I have set it all up, planned it meticulously. I’ll get away with it, you know?” 

I hold the gun up, pointing it right in his face. My hands still shake slightly, betraying my emotion. I need to see him squirm, to see him in the knowledge that he is about to die. I need to see the look in his eyes that tells me that he doesn’t want to die, despite his hopeless condition and his obvious self-loathing. 

And that look is there, plain as day. The begging pleading look of desperate hope. I know it well. I wore it constantly while I was chained to the walls. 

Through gritted teeth I speak the final words I need to say to him 

“Mister Rimac,” I say softly, unable to use his first name, “I have seen your family photos. I know what your father did to you. I know how horrific those things are to own experience. No one, and especially not a child, should have to go through that. Yet, even though you know the kind of pain and fear you put me through, you did it anyway. You should have found a different way to channel your pain. You are a pathetic man. 

“I know that you were put in a position of power that you were not equipped to negotiate. I know that you are a weak man. You are weaker than I ever was, even when you had broken me down to nothing. I don’t even hate you anymore, I pity you.

“To make sure that you are never again able to hurt someone the way you hurt me, I have made plans for you. I’m not going to shoot you.” I put the gun back down on the table, but still hold the grip. “You are not worth it. I could get away with it, don’t doubt that for a second, but taking a life is a serious business and it would stay with me forever. You are not worthy of that. You will, however, spend the rest of your life without freedom. I am sending you to a nursing home. It isn’t a particularly good facility; I am very sure you will be unhappy there. It was very easy to organise, with your condition worsening. It’s Huntington’s isn’t it?” 

He looks shocked, he almost laughs at the thought of being incarcerated in a nursing home, but he is relieved that he is not going to die today. He nods absently at my question, as if he has barely heard it. 

“Your mother had it too, didn’t she?”

He nods again.

“Yes, well you know what you have to look forward to then. Worsening motor symptoms, psychological difficulties, cognitive decline, dementia. I just hope you remember who put you there for a very long time.”

“Oh, best part is I was able to organise for you to have an all-female nursing team. No pretty young men for you to ogle at. No chance of a quick grope in the shower. It’s not an expensive facility to attend and I’m more than happy to pay the fees to make sure that you cannot harm anyone, especially that boy across the street, but I’m rather reluctant to upgrade you to the more lavish section of the home. Looks like you’ll be without an internet connection. No porn.” I say with a fake frown.

“Why not just kill me?” He asks, eyeing the weapon in my hand. Still not entirely convinced I won’t use it.

“I’m not a murderer. I’d rather you spend years suffering and knowing that your actions led to that outcome. You’ll die there, Mister Rimac. You’ll die alone.”

“You can’t do this; you won’t get away with it.” He says in disbelief. 

“I already have. It’s perfect, really. I still have the identity I maintained while I was here last time. I have told them that you are my uncle. You have no remaining living family so there is no one to refute it. Who are they going to believe? Your caring nephew or you, a sick, demented, creepy old man? You will sound crazier than you really are, if you try to tell them that the person who is paying for your treatment was actually a hostage within a secret military camp and he is seeking his revenge on you because you inflicted sever sleep deprivation and raped him every night.”

He suddenly realises how truly buggered he is. He looks utterly defeated. I’m finally starting to enjoy this. 

I hear the crunch of gravel that announces the taxi pulling up outside. “Come on, Uncle. It is time to go.” I say, gesturing with the gun towards the front door. He stands shakily and shuffles towards the door. His back is bent as he walks to the taxi. 

As I suspected checking him into his new home is an easy task. I had rung ahead to tell them that we would be arriving today, and he makes no complaints; he knows there is truth in what I had said. Arguing would only make him look insane. My Serbian is good enough to fool the administrator, especially as I mention that I now live abroad. I am the one and only contact for Mr. Rimac. They don’t really care beyond the fact that I have happily set up a direct debit for his expenses. 

“I’ll bring you a few more things tomorrow uncle. Have a good night.” I say as I wave goodbye. The smile is only half faked. The success feels good.

On the cab ride back to his house I realise that I now feel numb. The anticipation is gone, even the fear has abated. I’m not stupid enough to think it is completely gone, I know it will be back, I can feel it clawing at the edges. But for now, I am just left feeling empty.

I am met there by a real estate agent, a cheery lady who smiles so much it looks like it hurts. I have no intention of footing the bill alone. The sale of his house will pay for his bills for a while. She leaves me with the paperwork, the few parts that I cannot sign I will take with me tomorrow to the nursing home along with the few meagre possessions that I will allow Mr. Rimac to have. 

I have no desire to be the one to clean out the house, but I know there are items that no cleaning lady should ever be expected to deal with, and it needs to be done quickly. The real estate agent has organised a photographer to come by in one week. There is a lot to do before the house will be ready for the open market. 

The sun is setting by the time I hang my coat in the tree outside, in hopes that it will not be permeated further by the stench of this place. With my sleeves rolled up, I set about clearing the out the rubbish. 

Despite my best intentions to resume quitting today, I light up another cigarette. It’s not like I have to worry about stinking up the house or staining the walls or ruining the carpet with ash. In fact, I don’t even bother to find an ash tray. I just let the ash fall where it may. I plan to rip out all the carpet anyway. The cigarette smoke in my lungs feels better than the smell of the house. 

I intend on burning as much as I can from his rancid house. I make a pile on the back lawn and the first thing I add to it is the extensive collection of pornography from under his bed. Once his entire collection is on the back lawn, I add practically everything from the house. Clothing, carpet, curtains, furniture, anything that will burn goes onto the fire. It takes hours to drag his pathetic life outside. Once everything is piled high, I set the whole lot alight with the lighter I had burned my thumb with last night. I watch as his life’s possessions are eliminated by the flames. Disgusting photos curling at the edge in the heat. 

What cannot be burned fills his bins to overflowing and bags pile up next to them. It is like working in slow motion, I cannot seem to get my limbs to move at full speed. It takes a long time, but once I am done embers rise high into the night sky and the house is all but empty. I sit on the wall around the overgrown yard and watch the flames die down until the sun comes up. 

I will not come back here again. I leave the key under the mat for the cleaner who, in a few hours, will start the unenviable job of trying to make the house clean enough to sell. She has kindly offered to take the key to the estate agent when she is done. I don’t bother to close any of the windows. There is nothing to steal and the house still has the odour of his vile existence. Even the smell of smoke cannot cover it. 

My next stop is to make a visit to the nursing home, playing again the role of the caring nephew. Acting comes easily, more easily than being myself right now. He looks suitably miserable when I present him with the paperwork for the sale of his home and even more miserable when I give him his family photo album. I hope he looks at it often. 

I go straight to the real estate agent’s office. Paperwork in order, she confirms the appointment with the photographer. By then the gardener will have been there, and the cleaner, and the painter, and the new carpet will have been laid. The smiling real estate agent tells me that she will take care of everything. Thank goodness, I can hardly take care of myself. 

I take one last trip out to my secret place in the wilderness, to plant the passport and the gun back into their hiding place. After climbing the tree to place my neatly sealed package in the hallow high up in the branches, I wonder back to the little creek that meanders through the valley. I sit on a rock, the same rock that I sat on more than six months ago, before all this happened. Is it over, I wonder? If it is, I should feel different? Different than I did yesterday morning, relieved at least? But I am too exhausted to feel anything. Anything except for sad. Sad about the turns my life has taken, sad about what life has dealt to Mr. Rimac, and what he in turn dealt out to me. Sad that my life back at home has gone in such a strange direction. All the time I was away, I fooled myself into thinking that things would be the same when I got back. That John would go on staying in the room at the top of the stairs, that we would go on solving cases together, that my biggest problem would be finding the next mystery to entertain myself. For an intelligent person I can be so fucking stupid. 

I am glad he has Mary. She is just right for him in all the ways that no one else is. They will make wonderful parents. Thanks goodness, with their genetics the child is sure to be wild. As much as I adore her, Mary does mark the end of an era. Well, not exactly, but she is a symbol of it. 

I get to my feet. No good can come of sitting here and pondering such things. It has been over 30 hours since I left my room. I stink of smoke and sweat and him. I want to get the hell out of Serbia and never come back.

I get a taxi back to my hotel; the driver drones on about the weather and the condition of the roads and how much traffic there is ‘these days.’ I ignore him until I see a sign for a dry cleaner up ahead, then I shout at him to pull over. He waits while I dart inside. I give the lady a preposterous amount of cash and tell her there will be double if she can have my coat and jacket cleaned and ready to go in an hour. She looks shocked but up for the challenge. The rest of my clothing I plan to throw away. I don’t care that the shirt alone cost two hundred pounds. It will all go into the bin with the torn and blood-soaked shirt and jacket that are already there.

The taxi driver takes me the rest of the way to my hotel and he agrees to come back in half an hour. I haven’t even booked a return flight, but I intend on getting to the airport as soon as possible. I don’t muck about; shower, shave, more paracetamol, my last set of fresh clothing and I toss all my remaining belongings into my bag. Even in the mental fog that I cannot seem to find my way out of, I am standing on the curb waiting for my taxi to return within twenty minutes. 

The drycleaner is a marvel, my trusty coat and my jacket have been made to smell fresh and dew again. I have no hesitation in handing over the promised cash. 

It is a relatively short drive to the Niš Airport. It is starting to get dark again by the time we pull up at departures. I hope to get a flight out from here rather than going all the way back to Belgrade. The airport is busy. The only available flight isn’t for another 6 hours, but at least, the stop over at Zurich is only an hour. I drink coffee and eat an overpriced stale sandwich I watch the travellers pass me by. 

While I am reading the lives and stories on the people pass by me, I get a phone call from the nursing home. They want to inform me that Mr. Rimac has started to make outlandish claims about my identity. Some of the things he says are quite off putting apparently. They tell me it is a sure sign of his difficulty adjusting to his new home and of his worsening condition. I can tell that they already dislike him. They ask me to take over full power of attorney. I agree, being sure to feign enough concern and reluctance to be convincing. This is exactly as I hoped. I have them post the paperwork to one of my post office boxes in London.

I assess the trip as I sit waiting for my flight. It has been a success of sorts. Logistically, it went off alright. Emotionally, it has been draining. I’m yet to see if, psychologically, it has had any benefits or if it is a setback. At the moment if feels more like the latter.

The long boring trip home grates on my frayed nerves. It is not until my cab rolls to a stop by my front door that I finally breathe a sigh of relief. The familiar site of the black door cheers me. It is good to be home again. I know that feeling won’t last though. I’ll need a case soon, or a hit. Boredom itches at the periphery already.

As I climb the stairs, I can hear quiet voices floating down from my apartment. This is curious; John and Mary aren’t due back for days. I pause to listen. Mrs. Hudson and another familiar voice talking in muted tones. Female. Older. Refined vocabulary, educated, professional and well to do. Familiar, but I can’t quite pick it. I race up the stairs intrigued as to who it might be. I no longer feel drained from my trip. Surely a client. If it is a friend of Mrs Hudson’s they would surely be conversing in the down stair’s apartment. It must be a client.

At the tenth step I realise who it is. Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. I stop dead. My heart drops. There are very few reasons why she would be here. One of those reasons’ chills me to my core. She would be the one to tell me. I know it. If anything were to happen to him, it would be her. She would do it in person too; not over the phone. She’s polite like that. Only if he was dead though. If he had been injured someone would have called me, told me to go to the hospital. I take the last few steps slowly, in no hurry to hear what she has to say. 

She rises as I enter. My heart is on the floor. She is a smart woman; she must read it on my face. With an almost imperceptible shake of her head she dispels my fears for my brother. Tension and grief flow from me in an instant. Not dead then. She says, “I need your help.”

“What happened Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson interrupts as she rises to comes to me. She instantly takes in my blackened eye. “Your face, oh your poor face.”

“It’s nothing.” I drop my bag just inside the door and slide my coat off.

“I’ll get you some ice. It looks terrible. Where the hell have you…?”

“Don’t fuss Mrs Hudson, I need to talk to Lady Smallwood for a moment. Tea would be nice.”

“Oh, you’re so rude.” She chastises but I can hear the fondness in her voice, and she squeezes my forearm as she passes into the kitchen. 

I turn to Lady Smallwood. I know her well. Technically, I was even under her employ at one point. 

“You must be desperate to come here. Normally, you are capable of dealing with your own problems; the resources you have outweigh the little maladies of your life. If it was a slightly above average problem you would go to my brother, you all but share office space with him. So, this… this is something he can’t or maybe won’t help you with. It must be good. Please do tell?” 

By the time Lady Smallwood has finished telling me her problem, or more accurately her husband’s problem, I have a plan formulated. Charles Augustus Magnusson, a despicable individual, should make for an interesting foe. Best of all, he clearly loves to find a pressure point in his adversaries, and I have one that I am quite keen to show off. What luck, so soon after falling off the proverbial wagon, I now have a case that requires it.


	6. Epilogue

The next few months are easier. I still rely too much on distractions and narcotics, but I also look up a few cognitive behavioural therapy techniques on the internet. You can learn almost anything on the internet these days. I work on it from time to time and it helps a bit; I am sleeping better, adjusting to life again. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to describe my life as so capriciously variable that I manage to adapt to the moments, whatever they hold. 

Right now, that means being hopelessly short of breath and weak as a kitten, but very grateful to be alive and finally released from hospital. John is still refusing to talk to Mary. I don’t believe they have spoken since the night that I collapsed at Baker Street. John has been kind enough to return to his old rooms and is assisting me with cases again and with the daily tasks I can’t quite manage yet. The Magnussen case is at a standstill, but I think I can see a way for it to be resolved by the New Year. I have plenty of motivation, not only to protect John and Mary, but also because his little stunt at the hospital threatened to set back every bit of progress I had made. He makes my skin crawl. 

Our current case is far less pressing but is absorbing in its own way. It is a little affair involving a missing piece of jewellery that is locked in the drawer of an antique desk. The young family, having recently inherited the home and belongings of their deceased aunt, sent all the furniture, including the desk to an auction house. Only to then be told by a cousin that the diamond bracelet was stashed in the drawer. It should have been easy enough to track down, except that there were three almost identical desks at the auction and all three have been sold to different bidders. 

We are in a rundown little antique shop where one of the desks now resides. John, who knows nothing of the case, having been at work when the client called in, thinks that we are actually shopping for a desk. I wonder how long it will take him to figure out that we are not shopping for a desk but rather for THE desk. I know the exact measurements of the desk in question, having noted them down from marks on the wall and floor of its long-time home. I also know from the auction booklet that all the desks are of slightly different dimensions. I even know the names of the bidders, just not who bought which desk. Their record keeping is appalling really. 

I have John hastily scribbling down the measurements of furniture while I go from corner to corner with a builder’s tape measure. I am on my hands and knees measuring the width of the rear feet when my phone rings. 

“Answer that, would you?” I demand of John from my awkward position on the floor. He thinks I am being obtuse but in reality I can’t twist around to reach my pocket from this position. Getting shot can get in the way of things like that.

“Seriously.” John complains but reaches into my coat pocket for the phone. I smile at his grumbling.

“Hello.” I hear him answer as I move to the front feet for a measurement. “Just a sec, I can’t understand you. I’ll get Sherlock for you. Sherlock, you’ll have to take this, they are speaking in Russian or something.”

I stand a little too quickly, my head spinning. I grasp the phone from John. I glance at the phone. Uncle Rimac - Nursing Home is displayed on the screen. 

“Hello.” I greet the person in Serbian. 

“Hello. Is this Owen Jeffreys?” The voice sounds confused; I hope that they don’t know enough English to know that John just called me by my actual name.

“Speaking.”

“This is Katarina Petrovic. I am one of the nurses at the Trem Nursing Home. I hate to have to tell you this over the phone. Mitar Rimac passed away a few hours ago.”

I wasn’t expecting this news to come so soon. I can’t say that I am sad that he is dead, just that I am stunned. “How did it happen? His condition didn’t seem so bad in June.”

“It seems he could no longer deal with his deteriorating condition and chose to take his own life.”

I stand dumbly in the middle of the antique shop with the phone pressed against my ear. I try to give sensible answers in my poor Serbian to her questions. 

“No, there will not be a funeral.” He doesn’t deserve one.

“Please donate his body to science.” At least then he can do something good

“His belongings can go to whoever needs them at the nursing home or throw them away.” I don’t want a bloody thing. 

“No, I will not be able coming back.” I’m going to be avoiding Serbia for a very long time. Forever, maybe.

“Donate the rest of the money from the house to a charity. Preferably one that supports abused children. That would make him happy.” Lie, of course, but there seems to be some justice in that. 

“He was clearly fond of the photo album that you brought to him; he had it with him when he died. I could send it to you.” She says. 

“What page was it open to?”

“The one with the deer. He looked at that one a lot.”

I ponder that for a moment before it makes sense; that was one of the only times that his father showed any sense of pride in him. 

I can’t bring myself to tell her to throw the album away, so I give her the address of one of my post office boxes. I don’t want it connected with my real name. Mostly, I don’t want the album to come to Baker Street, but for some reason that I do not understand, I cannot bring myself to tell her to throw it away. 

By the time I hang up the phone I am slumped in an old oak chair with carved legs that look like those of a goat. I don’t remember sitting down. When I finally glance up, John looks at me with concern. He won’t have understood a word of the call thank goodness, but he has noted my reaction. 

“Are you ok?” He asks. “You look a bit pale.”

“Yeah, that um… just came as a surprise. That’s all.” 

“Was he very old?” John, my marvellous John has, of course, figured out that someone has died. 

“Not particularly, but he was unwell.” I really don’t wish to elaborate. I don’t want to discuss any of this with John. That could open up a can of worms I’d very much rather leave closed. “Measurements, John!” 

I jump to my feet and take up the tape measure that I had set down. 

The desk, it turns out, is the right one and having secured its purchase, at a price that is far more than its worth, but also far less than the jewels’ worth, we return home. 

The knocker under the 221B is straight. 

Predictably Mycroft is sorting through the papers on my desk 

“Leave that alone.”

“I see that you have returned the diamonds and the desk to their rightful, albeit foolish owners.”

“You see everything; it’s easy when you have the nation’s security cameras at your whim.”

“If only you were so obliging.” He quips. “Now, Mummy and Father have requested our presence at the Christmas dinner. Please decline so that we can all get out of this ridiculous farce. Mummy will accept your excuses; she still feels sorry for you. I keep telling her you’re not, in fact, dying, but she hardly believes me anymore.”

“No.”

“What, no? Don’t tell me you want to go?

“Not really, but if I get to watch you suffer through Christmas lunch it will be worth it. What do you say, John? Care to join us? Mummy does cook a nice Christmas dinner.” 

“Sure, yeah, alright, not like I’ve got anywhere else to be.” John replies, looking a bit morose. Mycroft’s face is priceless.

Without a word he passes between us to leave the room.  
I’m about to congratulate John on making Mycroft sulk so perfectly when he speaks softly “Mycroft. Sorry to hear about your loss.” 

It is a failing on my part that I didn’t foresee this possibility. Shit.

“What’s that?” Mycroft asks, looking baffled. That in itself is priceless or would be if I wasn’t in the process of having a heart attack because I know I am going to have to explain the whole thing now.

“Your uncle.” John says. Dammit, I should never have taught him to observe.

“Which uncle?” Mycroft asks turning to me. He looks suitably confused. 

“Oh, you didn’t know yet. Shit, sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Sherlock got a phone call from Russia earlier.” John keeps digging me deeper into a hole. 

Mycroft’s eyes flick towards me. I’m sure that he can read the horror on my face, even as I try to school my features. I give my head a minute shake. Hoping that he will let me explain later. 

“Oh that. Yes, thank you John. We weren’t close.” 

“Right,” I jump in, “That’s enough chit-chat. Off you pop.” I usher Mycroft out onto the landing and slam the door. 

I turn to John. His questioning glance is more than I can handle. 

“Are you ok Sherlock?” John asks. “You look a bit pale again.”

I hope that I can play up my recent poor health to cover for my errant emotions.

“I need a bit of a lie down before dinner. I think I might have over done it today. All that work with the measuring tape.” I mutter as I turn towards to my room. I will be forever grateful that John does not pursue the matter further. He is still a bit distant. Still hasn’t completely forgiven me for leaving for two years, or for my ill-timed return.

I barely have a chance to shut my bedroom door before my phone alerts me to a text message. 

It reads: We need to discuss this. Call by my office tomorrow. M

I make him wait until evening before I drop by. I am barely through the door before he begins. Clearly, he did not enjoy being made to wait. 

“What the blazers was John on about? We don’t have a recently deceased uncle or any other family member for that matter. I have checked and all our living family are still very much alive. Disappointingly in some cases.” Mycroft peers at me from his position behind his desk. 

“John misinterpreted a phone call that I received.”

“And how would it have been correctly interpreted?” Mycroft asked staring me down. That’s my brother. Always straight to the point. 

“It was a phone call from a Serbian nursing home to inform me of the death of a man that I placed there against his will.”

“A nursing home is a curious place for incarceration.” Mycroft states with a raised eyebrow. 

“Less fuss than a prison. No need for lawyers or courts.”

“Only if you are family though, say a nephew.” Mycroft says. There you go Mycroft you have figured it out. I knew you could do it. 

“Yes, easy enough to fake. Especially when there is no other family and a degenerating cognitive disease.” 

“Quite simple, I should think. But the question is why. Does this have something to do with the time you spent there?” 

“Yep.” I reply, I walk around behind his desk and inspect the picture of the Queen. Not because I’m particularly interested, but because I don’t want to be under his intense gaze. So, we converse back to back. 

“I though everyone from the compound was killed. The recruits were under strict instructions that everyone onsite was to be eliminated.” 

“Not everyone was onsite.” I say to the Queen through clenched teeth. “He only came at night.”

I think I may have heard a small gasp from Mycroft as the final pieces fall into place in his mind. 

“Oh dear… the man who… abused you.” He says, trying to be delicate. I wish he wouldn’t bother.

“Let’s call it what it is, huh? He raped me. Repeatedly.” I say bluntly. “I couldn’t let him walk free, move on with his life as if it never happened.”

“You knew he was out there?”

“From the first minute.”

“How did you sleep at night?”

“I didn’t,” I scoff, “I haven’t slept through the night since I returned.” 

I hear him shift in his chair. I resolutely keep my back turned but I know he is watching me. 

“Neither have I.” Mycroft confesses in a flat voice. I am stunned by his admission and equally confused. I don’t know what to say. “The guilt I feel for leaving you there that night consumes me.”

“You could have got us out sooner.”

“I could have got us killed.” He bites back. I know it is the truth, but I am furious, then again so is he. “Very nearly did get us killed and not a single thanks from you.”

“I wasn’t well.” I say quietly, although it sounds sulky even to me. Mycroft’s response surprises me.

“I know, I was there in the ambulance. You almost died. I thought I had lost you.”

“No such luck.” I say bitterly 

“What happened to you… it has really affected you, hasn’t it?” It is an unusually tender question from him. I probably should appreciate that he cares but I am not ready to open up in the way that the question requires, and it makes me angry that he should have to ask. I turn towards him, my rage bubbling over. 

“Of course, it has. I was tormented every day, beaten, drowned, electrocuted, deprived of sleep, left tied up while I shit my pants. You think that has no effect? Well screw you.”

I head for the door. My nerves vibrating with anger. My ribs ache with residual pain from the gunshot wound that is aggravated by my exasperation. 

Mycroft is on his feet now; he grips my arm firmly to stop me from leaving. 

“Sit down a minute.” He says gently steering me towards a chair and places a glass of water in front of me. “How did you find him?”

“I went there, asked around. That was the easy part. Facing him was harder. I needed to do it though. I let him think that I would kill him, I let myself think I would kill him.” My anger has drained away somewhat. Probably because now I feel dizzy.

“But you didn’t?”

“Clearly.” Mycroft tilts his head to indicate that there is more to be said and I continue. “I found out something. His father was not a nice man. His childhood was hell. I decided to take a different approach. I got creative. He wasn’t worth it.”

“I’d hate to think what somebody would have to do to be worthy then.”

“Hmmm.”

“But Baron Maupertuis. You killed him.” He says, suddenly alarmed when his thinking runs rampant with ideas of what he may have done to deserve it. 

“Nothing like that.” I reassure him. “He was dangerous, he would have worked out who I was once we were gone. Put everyone in danger.”

“Put John in danger.” Mycroft says what I can’t.

“Yes.” 

Mycroft gives me a meaningful eyebrow raise. 

“And he killed a friend.” I continue quietly. 

“Friends are rather your pressure point.” He says. I know that his choice of words points to Magnusson. I know it is a warning even before he says, “You need to be careful there.”

“Piss off.” 

“Jesus, Sherlock. You shouldn’t have had to go back there.” Mycroft says bringing the conversation back onto topic. “I would have tracked him down, sorted it out, if I had known he was out there.”

“No one knew. That was the way that I wanted it, want it. He is dead now and it’s over. Please don’t mention it again, and for god’s sake don’t talk of this with John.”

“It is not healthy to bottle it all up like this. You need to talk to someone.”

“I just did.”

“Someone more qualified perhaps. A doctor, maybe. I can always get Doctor Rider to come back if you’d like to discuss it with someone who knows the history. Or John, he would listen, you know he would, you two are still close, I’m sure he would lend a sympathetic ear.”

“No! John has enough going on without me lumping more on top. He stays unaware of this.”

“How heroic of you. He has to know something, though? He has been residing at Baker Street again, hasn’t he? I’d imagine you have quite a number of scars, they can’t have gone unnoticed even by someone as regular as John.”

“They are not as bad as you might think, they have healed quite well.”

“How nice, but you imply he has seen them then.”

“Of course he has.” I snap at Mycroft, why can’t he just leave things alone. “He has twice been present when the paramedics have cut my clothing off. Getting shot has cost me a fortune in clothing.”

“And did he ask how you acquired them?”

“No.” 

“No?”

“We had a bit on at the time. What, with trying not to die and all.”

“But later?”

“I asked him if he remembers Irene Adler.” 

“And?”

“He acknowledged that he did. I told him we had a night together. He choked on his tea. It came right out of his nose. He has been more respectful of privacy since then.” I stand and make for the door. This conversation has gone too far already. “I’ll see you at Christmas. Mummy would love it if you wear the sweater that she knitted for you.”

I can hear him muttering as I walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking this journey with me. Huge thanks to Sandrina, without her this would have been a frustrating pile of grammar garbage.  
> Thanks to the commenters, the givers of kudos and the lurkers. You all make it so much more fun to write.


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